


the feeling of being in motion again

by Chairman



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other, blaseball AU, blaseball player echo reverie, dance instructor grand magnificent, dance studio AU, falling in love with each other's craft, playing fast and loose with canon blaseball events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairman/pseuds/Chairman
Summary: They played blaseball, he did ballet, what more can I say?orA blaseball/dance studio grandecho au for waltztangocache's secret samol
Relationships: Cascabel/Even Gardner, Grand Magnificent/Echo Reverie, implied declan suzanne/tillman henderson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	the feeling of being in motion again

**Author's Note:**

> My secret samol prompt was a grandecho dance studio au was requested, along with "vague blaseball crossover/au"
> 
> I decided, why not both? 
> 
> Title is from "Going to Georgia" from the Mountain Goats.

As the ILB Coffee Cup loomed ever closer on the horizon, Echo Reverie, shadow hitter for the Chicago Firefighters, stepped forth from the inscrutable twisted dimensions of the Blean and into the bitter cold of the Midwest winter.

At last, they were free to play ball. If only for a short while.

Three months after the Shelled One’s defeat, the Firefighters were getting antsy.

Ever since the ILB was propelled forward by the whims of an all-powerful coin into the era of Peace and Prosperity, there was frankly nothing much to do in terms of being a blaseball team. Scrimmages were held, both with players currently in rotation as well as members from the Shadows, entering into the prime material realm through visas signed by the commissioner (who is doing a Great Job). The firehouse remained fully staffed, and not a single unextinguished cigarette butt smoldered on the streets of Chicago.

The Firefighters rested, and it none of them were used to it.

Once they were free from the shadows, Echo immediately took time off to travel. They caught a flight to Denver and from there visited Breckenridge, where they greeted their old team at The Pocket, as well as his sister who worked there as a stage manager, before heading out into the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains. Strapping on an old pair of cross-country skis, they traveled all the trails they could, traveling miles and miles each day and camping under the stars each night. They flew out of what was probably Salt Lake City. The demons they stood in line behind at the bus stop told them Hellmouth was not too far away.

On their flight back to Chicago, they listened to the new album the Garages dropped on the three hour plane ride there. Declan was in it. As the plane landed, they braced themselves for the return to the harsh bustle of the big city, for the return of people and cars instead of birds and trees. They could have stayed forever in the Rockies and built a small cabin there, but they had used up all their PTO (assuming they got paid for the fire service) and had shifts to do at the Firehouse.

Within weeks they were floundering with boredom. Even with scrimmages and team exercises, they could feel their body slowly forgetting what the burn of a day-long hike felt like. There was no challenge in living in Chicago, where they could just pick up a phone to order breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was all settling into a sea of inescapable ennui.

It wasn’t a question of staying in shape; it was a question of having something to _do._

It was Rosa who had suggested dance lessons. Echo had already bounced off indoor rock climbing (too fake) and kickboxing (the only person who could keep up with them was Justice), and was willing to at least check The Notion out.

The dance studio sat humbly within a strip mall two miles away from Chinatown. There was a diner next door with an art deco sign of a buff person flexing, neon lights flashing “Cascabel’s.” Apparently their specialty was waffles.

In contrast, The Notion had very little in terms of signage. The only thing adorning the door was an abstract icon that suggested dance, though Echo couldn’t tell which of the lines were limbs or where the head was on the “dancer.” Even the open sign seemed to live and die by Strunk and White.

Echo stared at the door, pretty sure it was the dance studio Rosa had told them about, but the unspoken iconography on the door meant that _anything_ could be inside. Maybe a dispensary. May a front for the mob.

They checked the studio’s website on their phone, noting for the first time how the strange dancing figure contorted into the studio’s N on the banner. They were probably in the right place.

The interior was all pink and lavender, and smelled vaguely of sweat and deodorant. A scruffy person in a cowboy hat manned the front desk, and nodded when they entered.

“Um, hi,” Echo waved, unsure of what the standard parlance of going to a dance class was. This was basically a gym, right? Would they be eviscerated on the spot if they called a class a workout?

“Here for a class?” the front desk person supplied. Along with the cowboy hat, they also wore a leather fringe jacket with two pins on the left breast pocket. Two numbers in different fonts: fourteen and fifteen.

“Yes,” Echo said, relieved that the words were being supplied for them. “Uh…I can just walk into a class, right?”

It was a good thing Fourteen’s face was so impassive, as Echo could only _feel_ their judgment and not actually _see_ it on their face. They pointed to an iPad stand next to the desk. “You sign up over there.”

Echo nodded and focused their attention to the screen. There were two classes offered for the next hour block: an advanced aerial silks session and a beginner ballet class. A glance over at the classrooms and the tall woman setting up streams of fabric from the ceiling and decided to take the ballet.

It was supposed to be good for athletes, right?

* * *

Unfortunately for Echo, the beginner class still called for more baseline knowledge than they had.

The instructor was a man with pretentious hair who wore a set of athleisure wear like statement pieces. He introduced himself as ‘Monsieur Grand Magnificent,’ but Echo had the sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t French in the slightest. If he didn’t walk around the class with perfect posture and demonstrate the exercises with practiced grace and ease, Echo would have severely doubted his qualifications in teaching the class.

Ballet, Echo found, had much more squatting than they anticipated. It also involved a lot of words, probably French, that they didn’t know and had to make educated guesses on. Multiple mentions of ‘first,’ ‘second,’ ‘fourth’ and ‘fifth’ positions were made, making them wonder what crime third position committed to be excluded from the group.

It wasn’t an unpleasant experience. It actually reminded them of the time they went skiing in the Swiss Alps, getting barked at in German, French and Italian by their ski instructors and piecing together their commands from their tone of voice. Grand Magnificent didn’t need to yell over the blustering wind, instead commanding the front of the studio as if he were giving a toast at a dinner party.

The exercise resembled strength training, except instead of weights there was just gravity. Most of the Firefighters’ strength training didn’t involve Phillip Glass, either.

Most of the class consisted of barre work (though Echo didn’t know there were extra letters to the word). After a while Echo’s brain settled into a nice rhythm: desperately figure out what the heck the new word Grand was saying meant, copy the movement as best they can, do the set to calming classical music, turn around and repeat on the other side.

Near the end of the class, the barres were cleared away and the class ended with what Grand called ‘floor work.’ Echo had thought they had grasped most of the terminology in ballet, but they were suddenly inundated with a multitude of new words that all seemed to describe different types of jumping.

If there was any doubt that Grand Magnificent was a good dancer, they were quelled as Echo watched him glide across the room, somehow lingering in the air with every jump. Though they were a neophyte, Echo at least knew that the height Grand achieved was impressive, and the way his legs stretched at the height of each leap…

Well it was…interesting.

They were not immune to hot people (they were teammates with _Rivers Rosa_ after all) but it didn’t feel right to objectify the dance teacher they just met. Aesthetically, however, they can admit that it was nice watching Grand Magnificent dance. The same way one would admire a gazelle leaping, or a swan in flight.

Like all great craftsmen, Grand made the combination look a lot easier than it actually was. The diagonal of the studio was only half the distance between bases, but each time it was Echo’s turn to go across it, they felt more nervous than when they’re stealing second after a foul ball. It was all a tangle of legs and leaps, and at one point they wondered if it would look better if they just skipped across the floor instead of attempting to do whatever a padishah was.

Class ended simultaneously too soon and not quickly enough. Grand Magnificent had everyone face him and copy a silly little bow (which they could now identify as a ronde-de-jamb followed by a tondue), a cursory “That’s all for the day,” and a round of applause for the lesson.

Sorer than they expected, Echo stumbled their way to their gym bag and took a long drink of water.

“Oh, hey,” a familiar voice spoke behind them, softer now that it didn’t have to project to the whole studio.

Echo turned around to face Grand. Everyone else was shuffling away to the rest of their day, and soon they were alone in the studio.

“I take it you usually don’t do ballet,” Grand said.

Even though that statement was factually true, it nonetheless raised Echo’s hackles. “First time,” they replied defensively. “And I think I did pretty well.”

“Yeah well, your turnout is wrong. You’ll hurt yourself if you keep doing that.”

Echo barely had an idea of what a turnout was, except that Grand continuously encouraged being mindful of it during class. “Sorry I can’t point my toes pretty,” they mumbled.

Grand blinked a couple of times and then laughed. “Oh it’s far too late for that. I’m talking about your hips.” He gestured to one of the barres, and Echo shrugged before following.

“Can you take first position? Okay,” Grand squatted down so he was eye level with Echo’s knees, which made it distinctly uncomfortable to look down at his face while he was talking. “You’re turning out from your knees when you should be turning out from your hips. Can I touch you?”

It was a customary question Echo got from their physical trainers, so they nodded. Grand instructed them to stand with their feet parallel, and then put one hand on their ankle and the other on their thigh. Echo tensed their muscles and followed Grand’s guidance into first position, the angle between their feet a bit less than what they were forcing during class.

“Now plié,” Grand commanded, and as they did he placed his hands on both their knees. “Your knees should always be over your toes when you do. Otherwise you might twist something.”

“Thanks,” Echo said cautiously, taking a step back to exit the strange intimacy found in Grand Magnificent correcting their form.

“So…do you play splorts?”

Echo was almost done packing up and getting ready to leave the studio. “Uh, yeah. Blaseball.”

Grand nodded. “I could tell from your hips. You have indents that tell me you run a lot. You should try my modern class. There’s less,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “frou-frou, and more rolling around on the floor.”

One of the lights overhead was flickering, but Echo could have sworn that Grand Magnificent winked.

* * *

“Oh my god you corrected their form?”

“They were forcing their turnout! I don’t want torn ligaments on my watch.”

“You don’t even know if they’re coming back. Did you have to wait until the end of the class to do it?”

“I didn’t want to put them on the spot.”

“Your defenses are extremely weak, Grand.”

“I know.”

“So what was this new student like that made you go Red Shoes on them? Signet, did you see them?”

“Just a glance, they looked like the outdoorsy type.”

“Very confused about how dance studios work. Didn’t even think to register online.”

“Didn’t know you liked them crunchy, Grand.”

“I would describe them as _chiseled_. Looked like they do winter splorts.”

“They’re a blaseball player,” Grand Magnificent mumbled.

Tender Sky blinked. “Wait, which one?”

“What do you mean, ‘which one’?” 

Tender reached into her clear jacket and grabbed her phone. “I met a player at Dashcon a few years back,” she said, scrolling through her photo gallery. “There he is, with the Xbox. We talked a lot next to the ball pit. He refused to go in, though.”

“He looks like a dweeb.”

“Yeah well, his ride was hot. I think I still have her number.”

Grand Magnificent looked at the blurry pictures on Tender’s phone. “Is being hot a prerequisite for playing blaseball?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a frog on the team.” Even interrupted, placing their orders on the table. Grand made a beeline for the maple syrup, focusing on his waffle and not the embarrassment train that was this conversation.

“Butbutbut,” Tender smiled triumphantly. “You admit they’re hot.”

There was no Grand, there was only syrup.

Fourteen was scrolling through their phone and whispered something in Tender’s ear that made her spit out her coffee and slap Fourteen’s arm repeatedly.

“Something the matter?” Signet asked, gingerly grabbing handfuls of napkins and handing them over to Tender.

“They just signed up for Grand’s modern class!”

* * *

When Grand Magnificent mentioned rolling on the floor, he wasn’t just making a double entendre. After ten minutes of warmup, with instructions that were mostly in English this time, everyone in the class was on the ground, then back up again. Echo found themself enjoying the class, especially since most of the class was set to soft electronic pop.

Modern dance was unexpectedly freeing. Some of the terminology from ballet still trickled over, but overall it was about fluid movements and making shapes with one’s body. A part of them wondered if this was giving them the same rigorous exercise as ballet, but they felt much more in tune with their body as it moved to the music, unlike the jumble of limbs they were in ballet class.

They still managed to work up a sweat in an hour, and when Grand turned off the lights and told everyone to improvise for the last two minutes, Echo found that they didn’t want the class to end. Somehow, two dance lessons with Grand Magnificent had broken through any internal barriers they had about dancing, and they let themself go, floating along the music and letting their body dictate their next move.

It was exhilarating. It was liberating.

They could feel Grand watching them the entire time.

They lingered after class a bit longer than necessary, taking a long drink from their water bottle. They could hear footsteps approaching them and turned to see Grand nonchalantly leaning against the mirror, leaving a smudge where his skin made contact with glass.

“So how did you like it?” he asked.

Echo shrugged, trying to keep a smile off their face. “It was fine. Definitely easier when I’m not trying to translate in my head as I go.”

“That’s definitely a plus, but there’s something to be said about ballet’s history. Some choreography’s lasted for more than a century—dancing it is like connecting with the past.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

A voice called from another room: “He’s trying to ask you out!”

“Thanks Tender!” Grand yelled back, his face red as he turned back to face Echo. “But seriously, if you want to grab some coffee at Cascabel’s next door, they have a secret menu that’s pretty great.”

Echo laughed, their heart suddenly pounding again even though they weren’t dancing. “That would be nice,” they said.

Both of them changed out of exercise clothes and walked out of the studio. On their way, Echo passed the same aerial silks room they saw the other day; it was mostly empty save the instructor and another person, who looked like she was summoned from 2010 tumblr with her purple hair and cat ears, and yet somehow more put together than Echo would ever be. Both of them glanced at Grand as they passed and gave him a thumbs up.

Grand responded with the finger.

* * *

Signet contemplated the $1 hot dog in her hand, watching the ketchup and mustard mix into a sunset. “Tell me why I’m here again, Grand Magnificent?”

Grand had been sitting at the edge of his seat, staring at his phone and the messages that he probably looked at a hundred times in the past hour. Echo had to stop texting as the game was beginning soon. “Because, Signet, I can’t just show up at a blaseball game alone.”

She took a small bite of the hotdog, somehow not smearing any condiment on her face (something Grand thought impossible unless one unhinged their joy). “Why not?”

“Because it would be _weird._ You don’t go to sporting events alone.”

“How do you know that?”

Grand Magnificent huffed and blew some air into his hands. It was mid-November, and the warm harvest of autumn had already given way to the unforgiving cold of the Midwestern winter.

They had excellent seats to watch the game. It turned out that not many people showed up to scrimmage games. A couple of families with nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon were scattered amongst the seats, along with a group of utensil-themed superheroes and what looked like volunteers from the humane society. 

“It’s just…I need a buffer, okay? I don’t want to come on too strong.”

“Didn’t they invite you?”

“Well yeah but,” Grand shrugged. “We grabbed lunch the one time. I feel like our relationship is still in its acquaintanceship phase.”

“They’ve taken five classes from you.”

“Yeah?”

“In the past four weeks. Grand.”

“Well, they’re an athlete.” Grand watched as players began moving from the field (that’s what blaseball has right, a field?) towards the dugout. “Dancing is a good workout.”

“So, a professional blaseball athlete requires the calisthenic expertise of ballet classes?”

“Shut up.”

“Why couldn’t you bring Tender? She knows some of the players.”

“Yeah, from Flyre Festival or something. I don’t want to be the guy who’s friend with someone who went to Flyer Festival.”

“Pretty sure it was Dashcon.”

“Same difference. Tender can be…a lot.”

“Fourteen Fifteen?”

“It’s their off day, remember? Would be weird to just have a talking box next to me.”

“What about Gig?”

“Do you really not want to be here?” Grand asked, exasperated.

Signet shook her head and took another bite of the hot dog. “No, I’m just trying to get a clear picture of why I’m here. What are your expectations for this?”

“I dunno, I watch them play blaseball? It’s only fair since they’ve seen me dance.”

“They haven’t, though.”

“What?”

“They haven’t seen you dance; they’ve only seen you teach.”

“Meh, close enough,” Grand mumbled, watching a short player with shiny black hair in a messy bun talk to a person wearing a blindfold. The short player laughed and as they looked in their direction Grand saw that it was indeed Echo. He raised his hand and gave a small wave. Echo squinted and placed their hand over their eyes to get a better look. After a jab from Signet’s elbow, Grand reluctantly stood up and waved both arms back and forth, feeling like an absolute fool. Like a splorts fan.

His face was red from the cold and the embarrassment of acting publicly excited, he rationalized. It definitely wasn’t because Echo smiled and waved back.

He was about to settle back into his cold plastic chair when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked up to see two individuals in suits standing over him. The Chicago Firefighters logo was emblazoned on their blazers.

Grand swallowed. “Um, how can I help you?”

“Coach Casimir Pulaski, you are needed on third base.”

With a whirlwind of fanfare and confusion, Grand Magnificent found himself standing at third base with an umpire helmet and the expectation that he should be, what, coaching? Which players? Everyone was from Chicago.

He also didn’t feel like a Grand Magnificent anymore, though he still thought of himself as both grand and magnificent. For some reason every time he dug deep into his theory of mind, he was certain that he was called Casimir Pulaski, or maybe Coach.

From what Echo explained to him when they invited him to the event, Coach Pulaski figured that the purpose of these scrimmages was to keep the team in shape. There was also something about sound design, but at that point Coach Pulaski had zoned out and was instead thinking about how he should try incorporating the environment more in his choreography, maybe do some on site stuff. He was also watching Echo’s arms as they talked, as they often spoke with their hands. Unsurprising for a batter, but Echo Reverie had very nice arms.

The pitcher at the mound had a flaming sword. Coach Pulaski was pretty sure that wasn’t necessary to the game, but what did he know?

The player at third base wasn’t much for conversation, seeing that they were a literal infant. Coach Pulaski was almost relieved when someone finally got to third base with a decisive triple. A single person in the stands whooped and shouted, “NO STARS, THREE CHEEKS, ALL BUTT.”

The player on base, who sure enough had Butt written on his jersey, bounced from foot to foot, an arm motion away from doing jumping jacks.

“Oh my god, you’re the hipster Echo’s been going on about!” he exclaimed. Before Coach Pulaski could respond, he continued, “Alright coach, whaddya got for me?”

“Uh,” Coach Pulaski stuttered. Up until now he was merely babysitting a constantly shifting baby. He didn’t think he’d have to actually _coach_.

“So Lou’s up next and we all know she’s a knockout in more ways than one, but it takes some time for her to warm up—three foul balls at least. So I’m thinking, I’m going to steal when she hits that fly.”

“Steal?”

“You heard me coach, think I got the chops?

“Is that leg—Can you even steal home?”

Butt shrugged. “Saw a mime do it once. Fellow over at the Spies do it all the time, call it Comfort Septemberish.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying anymore.”

Butt had dropped down to do a few pushups, and then took on a sprinter’s pose. “Wish me luck, Coach!” He yelled as the batter hit the ball with a _crack_ , and just like that Joshua Butt earned his team their third out.

With the rotation, Baby Triumphant crawled to the dugout while Echo took their place. “Hey,” they smiled, “didn’t know you were coaching.”

“Apparently I am,” Grand replied. “Uh, go team?”

Echo laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s mostly a nominal position. Just stand there and look pretty.” They looked as if they were about to say something more but held off.

Coach Pulaski followed their gaze towards the mound, where Edric Tosser was currently pitching. A cat was at bat, and got two balls in a row; easy since, once again, the batter was a cat.

“And how’s your…morning…going?”

“Eh, not bad. I like keeping active and it’s nice being able to play with everyone on the team.”

“So normally when the season’s going on, you’re not on the field?”

“Nope,” Echo said nonchalantly. “Then I’m on speed-dial in the shadow realm in case someone gets incinerated. Or I was. Not sure if the rogue umps are still around.”

Coach Pulaski blinked and tried to process their words. “A shadow realm like…away from here?” His heart began to drop as another question bubbled up in his chest: would Echo still be around when blaseball games resumed in earnest?

Echo sighed as if Coach Pulaski had asked the question in his head. “I don’t really know. A lot of my career is up in the air—I used to be with the Jazz Hands, and I was in talks to go to Yellowstone before I got shadow traded to the Firefighters. Not to say I don’t like it here but I’m definitely happier when the surrounding area isn’t completely flat.”

Coach Pulaski wanted to respond, but at that moment Socks Maybe hit the ball with a decisive crack and booked it like a cat on a hot tin roof towards third base. Echo Reverie snapped into action, their body coiled and ready to catch the ball thrown to them from the outfield. A whistle was blown and Socks slinked off to the dugout, while Echo triumphantly threw the ball back to Edric Tosser.

Coach Pulaski was not an expert in blaseball in any means, but he did appreciate the grace that came with muscle, bone, and sinew working together. The lines their body made as the ball left their hand would have made Zeno weep. The blaseball flew through the air in a perfect arc, Echo’s arm pointing towards its trajectory like a vector. There was focus and concentration that came with knowing how to do something and do it well; it was completely different from the mass of self-conscious, jumbled limbs in Grand’s dance class.

Grand Magnificent, who didn’t feel like the person loitering around third base, watching Echo Reverie play.

Another player was up to bat, and Echo relaxed a bit, rescuing the conversation from the metaphorical fire of awkwardness it had previously descended to. But the image of their body in perfect motion hovered over them like an aura, the way a resting wing held promises of flight.

With the team’s caliber, innings changed frequently, and Coach Pulaski was always sad to see Echo head back to the dugout. They didn’t spend much time on base when they were at bat; the one time they ran past they were in full sprint and barely grazed the plate before heading straight to home.

The next time a runner ended up on base, they looked directly at Coach Pulaski through her blindfold and said, “Not that it’s hard for you.”

It was the person Echo was talking to before the game started. The back of her jersey read Spoon.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what Echo wanted to say. I could hear them thinking it from the outfield.”

Coach Pulaski had to replay almost the entirety of his conversation with Echo before understanding, sort of, what Spoons meant. Nevertheless he felt embarrassed. He should probably feel embarrassed, right?

Blaseball was a lot like opera. A lot of things happen, and then it was over. Coach Pulaski was able to have a couple more brief conversations with Echo, was able to watch them at bat and in motion, and then it was the ninth inning. Home team was down two points, and all the observers gathered near the edge of the stands.

Two bad pitches from Tosser and two players were on base. A small frog man was at bat, and after two fouls hit the ball with such force that it flew past the field and into the stands, near where Signet stood (it was amazing that she decided to stick around after Grand was recruited into being Third Base Coach). A rumble went through the small crowd, picking up volume until calls of Shame tore through the stadium like the rumbling of fire.

The entire team rushed onto the field, unified once more as the scrimmage ended. Grand Magnificent felt his name returning to him, as someone bowled into him and half-tackled, half-hugged him.

Echo Reverie was sweaty, their hair tearing free of their ponytail, and they couldn’t have looked more radiant.

“So that went well,” Signet smiled, tossing the blaseball up and down idly.

Grand Magnificent had had a morning, and didn’t have an energy to make a smart retort. He couldn’t help but smile and keep smiling. Echo had texted him multiple times in the past few minutes, hammering out plans for their date next Saturday.

* * *

Echo was early. The Notion was ostensibly closed, but they could hear music coming from inside. Taking a deep breath, Echo got over the social stigma and pushed the door open.

The lobby was empty, but as Echo followed the sound they saw the largest studio filled with about two dozen people, most of them sitting on the floor. Three people were dancing in the center, while a camera was set up in the front of the room, operated by someone Echo was sure they had seen on a YouTube advertisement.

Someone else was watching, horned, four-armed and purple. They turned to look at Echo and they caught the same Fourteen Fifteen pins on their jacket.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Fourteen said, though they didn’t look like they were going to kick Echo out.

“I’m here to, uh, meet Grand.”

“Oh, I know.”

Echo wanted to ask, but they also didn’t want to know.

“It’s a private lesson for instructors and advanced students,” Fourteen explained, picking up the conversation like a dropped stitch. “Some of the footage gets uploaded onto our website.”

“Oh yeah,” Echo said, half remembering the videos that they did not play.

The combination was to a song Echo definitely suffered through during a high school dance, but under the expertise of the choreographer and the skill of the dancers, the song seemed perfectly crafted for the dance and not the other way around. There was something familiar about the dancers’ movements; a unity in shape and motion that Echo was slowly picking up the language to describe.

The dancers rotated, and Echo could see a familiar figure take position in the center. It was the first time they had seen Grand Magnificent sleeveless, and they were surprised at the intricate tattoo sleeves that ran down both his arms.

The combination started, and Echo figured out what had been floating at the tip of their tongue, the edge of their brain. The way Grand’s movements were just a bit smoother, hitting the poses a bit cleaner.

He was the one who choreographed the combination.

Grand the dancer was fascinating to watch. The posturing and pretention he had as a teacher translated into easy confidence. Echo barely looked at the other two dancers, pulled into the gravity of his motion.

The dancers hit the ending pose and everyone clapped. Echo let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. People were beginning to stand and mill out of the studio, and Echo stepped to the side to avoid the throng of people exiting.

“You look like you do parkour.”

Echo turned to see the cameraman, sans camera.

“Uh, a lifetime ago,” they said slowly.

The cameraman extended his hand. “Gig Kephart.”

Echo shook his hand and hesitated before giving him their name.

“So I do video production for dance companies but I also freelance for people who need to get out there, show the world their stuff, you know? And you look like you have skills—doesn’t have to be anything professional, I’m like Mike Rowe but not shitty about unions. I just like producing videos on people and their work.”

“Gig,” Echo said slowly. “I just barely met you.”

Gig dug around his jacket, which had twice the number of pockets a regular jacket did. “Well if you ever want to be on the ‘Tube, hit me up.” He handed them his card, brightly laminated and kind of hard to look at for too long.

Thankfully, Grand chose this moment to stop by. “Hey,” he said, his dance outfit replaced with a pair of jeans Echo was pretty sure were tailored and a shirt that defied geometry.

“Hey.”

Gig looked between the two of them, realization dawning on his face, and suddenly pointed at Echo. “Oh,” he said, and then moved his finger to Grand. “Oooooh.”

“Hey Gig, how did the footage come out?” someone called from the front desk. Gig turned and, while he was distracted, Grand grabbed Echo and ran out of the studio. Fourteen gave them a thumbs up on their way out.

As the door to The Notion closed, Grand and Echo shared a look and began to laugh.

“Sorry about that,” Grand said. “I should have warned you about Gig, he can be a lot.”

“I mean, you’ve met my team,” Echo shrugged. “Actually scratch that, you _coached_ my team. I’m used to people who are a lot.”

“He’s great at his job though. Really passionate about capturing stories and getting it out there. Inspires me as an artist.”

Echo gave a ‘hmm’ of understanding. They enjoyed art and music, but when Grand talked about them with capital letters it left them with only a few cursory things to say. They liked sketching while they hiked and enjoyed the musicals that the Pocket put on, but their intellectual ideas of art basically boiled down to ‘I enjoy it, and thus it is Good.’

The two of them walked down the block, idly chatting, until they stopped at the intersection.

“Where were we supposed to eat at again?”

“I dunno,” Echo shrugged. “I’d be fine if we just went to Cascabel’s.”

They then doubled back to Cascabel’s, the diner smelling invitingly of fried foods and maple syrup.

“Welcome, two counter seats?” Even shouted from across the diner.

“No, I think we’ll take a booth,” Grand said, and Echo tried not to overthink Even’s enthusiastic smile at the request.

They had met up at Cascabel’s before for coffee, but this was the first time Echo needed to examine the brunch menu. Grainy pictures of real food decorated the sides of the menu, somehow more delicious than the airbrushed mirages offered at fast food chains.

After ordering, Grand and Echo finalized their plans for their date:

“I think there’s a bus that goes from the Blean to the waterfront. It’s a little touristy but it could be nice.”

“Oh, I’ve never seen the Clown Gate.”

Echo stared at him. “The Blean,” they repeated.

“You mean the Clown Gate.”

“ _The Blean_.”

“Clown Gate.”

“The Blean—no one calls it the Clown Gate!”

“I refuse to refer to a work of art by its colloquial name, especially when the creator has expressed a dislike of it.”

“Oh my god,” Echo groaned. “You are seriously defending Anish Kapoor?”

Grand raised his hands up. “I respect the artist’s vision! Is that a dealbreaker?”

Echo thought about it for a bit. “Nah, if I refused to talk to people with bad taste I wouldn’t be friends with Declan.”

Echo was a mountain person born and bred. Their soul ached for the towering jagged peaks of the Rockies, for a skyline interrupted by the earth reaching upward. Still, they recognized the allure of open water, and Lake Michigan did a decent job of emulating the ocean’s horizon.

The two of them walked along the shore, the greenery surrounding them too tame to be called woodland and too wild to be a park. They traded stories, Grand detailing how he designed The Notion’s logo, graphic design one of his many artistic passions in addition to dance. In turn, Echo talked about their life back in Breckenridge, how they got into blaseball in the first place, and how it felt watching necromancy unfold from the sidelines.

Grand talked with his hands, passionately and far too long. Echo mentioned a TV show they watched recently and Grand would expound for ten minutes on the lighting and costume choices.

“Hey, how did you end up dancing, anyways?” Echo asked. “It sounds like you could have done, well, anything. Sculpture, graphic design, hell even haberdashery.”

“I guess it’s just the perfect combination of creating something new while adhering to the past. Before I got into dance I was so focused on creating something completely original: original medium, original theme, to hell with the old masters. And when that didn’t pan out I needed some point to connect, and that’s where dance came in. Ballet specifically. Because some of the music we dance to is three hundred years old—but the choreography is completely new. Some of it has been preserved, sure, but there’s also complete freedom in taking something like The Nutcracker and completing redoing it to be about something else.”

They ended up resting on a rock at the side of the trail, close enough to feel the chill from the lake as the wind picked up. Grand Magnificent offered Echo a protein bar.

“When did you become a purveyor of trail snacks?” Echo teased, taking a bite and then spitting the contents into their hand. “And what the hell is this thing?”

“Bit of a habit I picked up when I was a truck driver,” Grand explained. “And that candy bar is from a local company my friend started. Supposed to give you lots of calcium.”

Echo ignored the part about the candy bar. “Wait you were a truck driver? How?”

Grand shrugged. “Had a crisis of faith and needed to get away from everything. Driving seemed pretty therapeutic. I got really into podcasts.”

“Yeah I’ll bet.” Not knowing what else to say, Echo jumped from the rock and peered down the trail. They were halfway through by their estimation.

They continued walking, energized by the frankly disgusting protein bars.

After a bit of silence, Echo mustered enough courage to say, “I’m not on speaking terms with my brother.”

“How come?”

“He sold out and became a cop. Then one of my teammates punched him because punching cops is kind of his thing.”

“I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Yeah well,” Echo shrugged. “It happens. He used to fight for actual change, but then he got hired by the government and it all became ‘changing the system from inside’ and ‘well change is gradual, be happy with what you get.’ Just makes the holidays awkward is all. I probably won’t be going home this year.”

“Still,” Grand said. Echo felt Grand’s hand brush theirs, and with a decisive motion took his in their own. They were hardly in the wilderness, but Echo felt more confident as trees and nature surrounded them instead of the bustle of the city. A sharp gale blew from the lake and Echo leaned against Grand’s arm. He was warm.

They were back at the Blean, an unknowable void where giggles and bicycle horns occasionally emanated. Echo looked down at their hands, still together, letting Grand swing them back and forth as he looked like he wanted to say something.

“The studio does a holiday recital every year,” Grand finally spat out. “We all perform—well, Gig and Fourteen don’t, but all the instructors and a lot of the long-time students do. It would be great if you came.”

Echo smiled. “I would love to.”

* * *

The last dance recital Echo had been to was at their local high school, in a gym repurposed into an auditorium with fold-out chairs for the audience. The Notion’s recital was actually legit, with plush movie theater chairs and actual lighting and sound design.

Grand had explained that it was a modern remix of The Nutcracker, and though Echo knew next to nothing about ballet before starting to take classes from Grand, even they knew what the Sugar Plum Fairy song sounded like.

The songs were remixed to varying levels of recognizability, with Tender Sky’s hip hop routine sounding nothing like classical musical, the reed flutes playing over a bass they could feel through the soles of their shoes.

There was probably a plot, but Echo lost its thread by the third dance and was content to watch the dances as they came, having a newfound appreciation for the skill necessary to execute some of the dance moves.

After Signet gracefully fell from her aerial silks and dragged her setup from the stage, the lights went dim and someone walked onto the stage alone. The lights brightened and Echo could see Grand Magnificent in a purple leotard, somehow owning the outfit. The music started, violin strings and harp completely unaltered. The melody was slow, and soft, yet Echo’s heart was beating quickly as Grand began to dance.

It started out as ballet, yet even there Grand gave it a sense of unrestrained freedom within the rigid movements. As the music gained momentum, Grand’s movement became looser, taking on more aspects of modern dance.

Echo wondered how it was possible to describe the arc of a blaseball flying through the sky through dance. Because as the dance progressed, they knew Grand was dancing about _them_ , about how they met and got to know each other.

As they watched Grand Magnificent dance, they understood. Maybe not in the words Grand had used, but Echo _felt_ what he had meant when he had looked to the lake and rambled about history and connection. Grand Magnificent flew across the stage, his hands telling whole stories with simple gestures, and through the power and craft of his work Echo could feel the connection Grand had talked about.

Even though they were sitting still, they felt like they were also caught up in the motion of Grand’s dance. Tchaikovsky’s music swelled, trumpets and violins triumphant in their declarations of hope and new beginnings. Echo’s heart swelled with them, and at the end of the dance they leapt to their feet clapping, even though they knew there was still two dances left in the show.

Grand held his pose and stared out into the audience. He smiled, and Echo knew it was meant for them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
